


Even Though You Fool Your Soul

by AnnetheCatDetective



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demisexuality, First Time, M/M, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, making an effort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-01-14 23:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18486925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: Aziraphale has spent six thousand years being blithely and utterly free of any kind of sexual desire. Lately, that's changed. There are things he wants that he's fairly certain a Good Angel doesn't want-- namely, sex with a demon, even if that demon is the lover he's already committed himself to.When it comes to sex, he finds he doesn't want to say no. He's just afraid to say yes. And it would be so much easier if they were just people...In which Crowley and Aziraphale use fantasy to allow Aziraphale to come to terms with his new sexual feelings, and Crowley learns some things about his own desires in the process.





	1. Too Scared To Mention

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo, every single sex act in this story is one hundred percent consensual and the characters establish a safeword and discuss things both before and after each and every scene in at least a passing way, but part of Aziraphale's whole coping process as he first opens himself up to being a sort of sexual being is that he needs to distance himself from his desires by acting out scenarios where he's coerced and overwhelmed and the choice is at least a little out of his hands, so if that's an uncomfortable area for you even in terms of fantasy/roleplay, just a fair warning.

    They’ve been happy, really… since the world survived and went on turning, they’ve been blissfully happy. A couple of days of hesitation, and then it all came pouring out, and before they knew what they were doing, they’d bought a home together. Every night, Aziraphale joins Crowley in bed, though he rarely sleeps. They do little things for each other, they hold each other close, they kiss…

 

    It’s so much more than Crowley dreamed. Every so often, he stops himself, when a kiss threatens to grow too heated. The last thing he’d ever want is to make Aziraphale uncomfortable, he couldn’t bear to hurt him with something too much, with the idea that he might not be enough. He’s more than enough. Crowley wants him, of course he wants him. He’s wanted him a couple thousand years, he thinks, it’s murky. He _adores_ him. Lust is encouraged, for demons, but Crowley’s never been lustful. He’s in love, which is far less encouraged, and it’s that love that fuels every desire he’s ever felt. For Aziraphale, and for Aziraphale alone.

 

    He’s more comfortable not having sex than he is pushing Aziraphale, who’s never given any indication of interest. It’s not that Aziraphale isn’t physically demonstrative-- he’s always tugging Crowley close, always taking his arm, inviting him into his lap-- or putting his feet in Crowley’s while he reads-- always demanding a kiss or offering one. He holds hands, he settles into Crowley’s arms in their bed at night and says he’s happy to lie in bed awake just because it means he can enjoy the feel of being like this, together, for hours on end.

 

    No, it’s that to his knowledge, Aziraphale has never put in the effort, outside of situations where he might be glimpsed nude and it would raise questions not to have certain anatomical features. Crowley keeps his around all the time, enjoys giving it the odd bit of personal attention in the bath now and then. Mostly he just likes the sense of completeness, but Aziraphale… They bathe together, they dress and undress together, they relax in bed naked together, and Aziraphale is content _without_ , which… Crowley’s asked, and Aziraphale had said he just didn’t see the need for it, and it didn’t seem worth pursuing.

 

    It’s a surprise, then, when he comes into their bedroom to see Aziraphale standing before their full length mirror, staring at himself, in all his anatomically correct glory.

 

    “Oh-- hello, dear, you startled me.” He turns, then remembers himself. He hesitates over bringing his hands around to offer some modesty, eventually settling on not. After all, he’s seen Crowley naked, it hasn’t ever meant anything, beyond they live together and trust each other.

 

    “Yes, you’ve startled me a bit. Thinking of putting in the equipment?” He smiles, moving to touch Aziraphale’s hip, to kiss his cheek.

 

    “Considering it. Er, considering… It’s been a very long time since I’ve _had_ \-- and when I did, of course, I certainly never _used_ \-- I was curious.”

 

    “You mind my looking?”

 

    “Of course not. You’re you.” He smiles. He lets Crowley lead him to the bed, lying down and allowing him some time just to take in the view.

 

    Crowley touches him. Not there, but his arm, his belly, his chest, his thigh. Idle, gentle touches, sexless touches. He admires him, the aesthetic choice of it as it lays soft against his thigh, there below the weighty curve of his belly. Gently pinkish and plump, well-suited to the rest of him… the shape of him lovely, even like this. Crowley imagines seeing it in the bath, just as it is now. Washing him, allowed those little touches that way. Simply knowing it’s there, or might be. Thinking about the sight of it while touching himself, perhaps-- he normally called to mind memories of holding Aziraphale’s hand, of slow, deep kisses. Before they’d been on kiss-exchanging levels of intimacy, he’d very carefully thought about nothing, though the occasional thought of Aziraphale came to him now and then despite his best efforts.

 

    “It’s nice. Very you.” He bends to lay a kiss to his belly. Another to his chest. “Will you keep it?”

 

    “At least a while. You, erm… you sometimes… indulge yourself.” He says, looking up at the ceiling rather fixedly.

 

    “I do. Time to time.”

 

    “How does it work? That is-- I’ve… Sometimes-- and you mustn’t feel as though I would ever ask for more than you find comfortable! Sometimes, when you kiss me, I… There’s a sort of a _stirring_.” Aziraphale admits, flushing. He’d avoided thinking about it at first. Without any relevant anatomy, it wasn’t deeply sexual, but he’d come to understand what it _was_ , or what it wanted to be. What it had the potential to become.

 

    “So do I, sometimes.” Crowley assures him, lying down and taking Aziraphale’s hand in his own. “When I pull away, it’s… that’s why. Not because you’re too much for me, if you worried.”

 

    “Oh. I’m glad.” Aziraphale smiles at him, finally breaking from his staring contest with the ceiling. “That it wasn’t because I was too much for you, I mean.”

 

    “Would you like to try… just feeling it? We’ll kiss, and-- and just that. We’ll just kiss, for now. And if it’s too much and you want to stop, we’ll stop. But… maybe we don’t have to be embarrassed, if… I mean, look-- it’s-- No one’s obligated to do anything more than he’s happy with. But we can let ourselves feel something.”

 

    “I do want to feel what it’s like… but-- I mean… I’m an _angel_. We’re not meant to.”

 

    “It’s not forbidden, is it?”

 

    “I don’t know. I mean… there are things I think angels can do together, but I… I don’t know. And I don’t know if-- Oh, dear, you know I love you. But I’ve never felt these things before! I don’t understand them and I don’t-- There are things I want to know more about, but it’s… It makes me anxious as well.”

 

    “I know you do.” Crowley brings Aziraphale’s hand up to his lips. “I can tell you about how I do it, if you like. And you can try it alone.”

 

    “I don’t know… I don’t know if I want to try it alone.” Aziraphale frowns. “I only feel this way with you. I-- Oh, sometimes I think it would be easy, if you could just _make_ me feel things. Or if we could just be people and I didn’t have to worry about the rules. It wouldn’t be wrong if we were only-- I don’t know.” He frets, rolling onto his side and tucking himself in against Crowley’s shoulder. “I wish it could just be easy…”

 

    “I’ll make it easy for you.” Crowley promises, stroking his back. He’s powerless to resist, seeing Aziraphale troubled. He’d do anything. “We’ll pretend we’re just people. And I’ll kiss you-- and you can stop me if I go too far, but… if you want me to touch you, or to show you how I touch myself, we can.”

 

    “Pretend?” Some of the upset seems to lift, and Aziraphale shifts a little, still cuddled close but no longer seeming as if he means to hide himself. “Yes. Yes, we could-- I might-- I might just be a person. And you might be another sort of person. Meeting the way people do. And-- and if it doesn’t work, then it won’t be about us, it won’t spoil things with us, if we pretend.”

 

    “No, it won’t spoil things with us.” Crowley promises, kissing him. “Nothing could ever spoil things with us. Who shall we be?”

 

    “I suppose if I had ever been a human, I might just be… I might just be a sort of a gentleman scholar. Do you think I could play the part?”

 

    “Oh, perfectly.”

 

    Aziraphale relaxes further. “A sort of a gentleman scholar. At one of those… those awful country weekends people were always throwing, do you remember those? I was dragged to a few.”

 

    “I bet you always holed yourself up in the library of the house.”

 

    “Yes. Or whatever room I was placed in.”

 

    “All right.” Crowley smiles, touching his face. “So you’re a gentleman scholar, holed up in his room with some books. And I?”

 

    “A rake.” Aziraphale drags him into a kiss, hand in his hair. “A _bounder_. With a heart of gold, of course.”

 

    “Of course. But still irredeemably wicked?”

 

    “Well… wicked enough. Wicked enough… to come into my room, as I’m changing. And to-- to press yourself upon me. And then it could be-- I could be permitted, for being surprised, and-- and unable to resist your charms.”

 

    “No one could blame you for being carried away on a tide of passion. I’m a handsome rogue, after all.”

 

    “They couldn’t, could they?”

 

    “No. Not one bit. You… virginal, naive… quickly overwhelmed… you could never be blamed for allowing yourself some pleasure, under the circumstances.” He kisses Aziraphale again, just soft and gentle. “I’m going to show you what I do for myself. And then if you want me to touch you the same way, all you have to do is let it happen, all right? If you want to stop me, you can-- you can safeword, we’ll have a safeword. It doesn’t have to be because you’re too upset to go on, it can just be because you want to stop and do something else. No hard feelings.”

 

    Aziraphale nods. Heads bent together, they whisper, hands clasped together, touching cheeks, touching hair. Safeword agreed upon, and story details, gentle kisses exchanged.

 

    Crowley changes his outfit to something appropriate with a wave of the hand, moves to the door. Aziraphale merely puts his underthings back on, and waits for Crowley to re-enter so that he can feign shock and modesty.

 

    “Mister Crowley, please! You might knock!”

 

    Crowley grins, and knocks against the doorframe, before sauntering in and closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He turns the lock, to add to the fiction that they might be in a sprawling country estate full of people.

 

    “You might lock your doors when you’re dressing, Professor Fell. Goodness, but you do hide yourself away under so many layers… and what a distraction you are when you don’t.”

 

    “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Aziraphale says, as Crowley draws close. Close enough to taste the beating of his heart. He could tame it if he so wished-- he could tell his vessel not to react the way a human’s would. It’s rather exciting to have him reacting. Just like people, that was what they’d said, wasn’t it? They were going to play at being people.

 

    “Allow me to demonstrate, then.” Crowley slips an arm around him, bending him to a kiss, deep and passionate. He draws back when Aziraphale moves to pull back from it, waits to see if he needs to call it quits, but when Aziraphale only looks at him, breathless and wide-eyed, Crowley kisses him again.

 

    Aziraphale definitely feels something. Now that he has all the requisite parts, the feeling has someplace to _go_. It’s curious and he doesn’t yet know how he feels about it.

 

    “So much more interesting than a boring old party…” Crowley grins, as the kiss breaks. “I did wonder, seeing you before, if you knew how to have a good time…”

 

    “I’m afraid I don’t. I-- That is-- I’ve never… No one has ever--”

 

    “No one’s ever given you a good time before? Oh, dear me… now that is a shame. Such a beautiful mouth to go so long unkissed. Such a lovely pair of arms to be without a man in them. Such a lovely arse, not to be squeezed and patted! I would treat you the way a pretty thing like you deserves, you know. I would teach you all about pleasure. Has no one ever _pleased_ you?”

 

    Aziraphale is so _pink_ , his lips wet and just barely kiss-stung-- just barely, but Crowley could change that. When he does lean away, it puts him nearer the bed, serves to open his posture rather than to close it off, his shoulders back, his head turned just so, his throat…

 

    Crowley follows, bending his head to that throat, feeling the moan as he kisses him there.

 

    “You-- you think I’m l-lovely? A pretty thing?” He asks, and the hesitation he feels over the subject of sex adds to his ability to act in that moment, when normally he is quite aware of how Crowley finds him lovely to look at. He might blush and say ‘oh, you’ about it, but it no longer sends him to pieces.

 

    “Oh, yes I do.” Crowley grabs very firmly at his love handles and sucks at his throat until Aziraphale whimpers, until his hips push forward.

 

    Aziraphale freezes, with the realization that they have. The realization that he is beginning to harden, that the heat in him has a very definite goal. But then Crowley nips at him and his hips snap forward again.

 

    “Oh! Oh--” He pushes at Crowley’s chest, though without any real strength. “Sir! You are entirely too-- you are entirely too bold! You’ve made yourself very free with me, I simply must protest!”

 

    “Must you?” Crowley licks his lips, giving Aziraphale a heated look. Every mock struggle back leads them closer to their bed… and he can see the excitement in Aziraphale’s eyes. “It felt to me as if you liked it. You’re overdue someone being free with you.”

 

    “I oughtn’t let you speak to me so. And you, with your _reputation_ \--”

 

    “Oh, mustn’t believe everything you hear from idle gossip. I’m not so bad as all that… just because I steal into gentlemen’s bedrooms sometimes doesn’t make me such a bad sort.” He grins, and thinks of early days. The way Aziraphale used to retreat behind ‘but you’re a _demon_ ’, and the way he still sought Crowley’s company out, the way he would catch himself leaning in sometimes…

 

    He’d said it a lot, over six thousand years, but Crowley had learned very quickly that what Aziraphale said and what Aziraphale felt were often two very different things. And sometimes, when he said ‘but you’re a demon’, what he meant…

 

    It took Crowley long enough to realize what he meant was ‘I shouldn’t love you like I do’. Even in the days before they grew truly close in a way that could never be undone, Aziraphale had felt a love for him he thought he shouldn’t.

 

    Well. Aziraphale was never alone.

 

    Not where Crowley was concerned.

 

    “I insist you let me go.” Aziraphale says, with a quick look back to the bed. A bit of careful engineering and they take a half-step together, before Crowley releases him so that he might fall back on the bed.

 

    His breaths heave. His legs spread wide, his body propped up on his elbows, his expression dizzy and desire-fogged, and the tenting at the front of his drawers… Crowley takes him all in, beautiful sight that he is. He looks wonderfully human in this moment, flushed and breathless and… and so beautifully settled into his vessel. Oh, Crowley can always taste the divinity of him, but here and now, everything feels… it feels as if they’re so free of any thought of Heaven or Hell. The only thing that matters is having a lover with desire in his eyes… and with such _trust_.

 

    “But I have been unfair with you…” Crowley purrs, shedding his jacket. It slithers to the floor. The rest of his clothes quickly join it. “You’ve given me such a beautiful view of you. I’ve denied you the same.”

 

    “Mister Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice trembles. He watches with _hunger_.

 

    Aziraphale still wears his undershirt, but Crowley removes his anyway, relishing the way Aziraphale’s eyes rake over his body. It’s nothing new, of course, and yet it is. Aziraphale has seen him countless times, and even past vessels have tended towards the same shape. Always lithe and slender and serpentine, always with incredible muscle definition-- inhuman muscle definition, in fact. He’s grown to know this particular vessel very well since moving into the cottage together, since sharing regular baths and showers, since becoming acquainted with Crowley’s habit of basking nude in the privacy of his greenhouse…

 

    But Aziraphale has never been a sexual being before. He still doesn’t know what kind of a sexual being he even is, to what extent. Enough, enough to look at him and feel a renewed longing. To suddenly want to touch, lick, kiss, bite… He hasn’t the courage to do those things, and yet… and yet if Crowley were to guide his hand… he would take pleasure in it.

 

    He watches, transfixed, as Crowley drops his own drawers, stepping free of them-- that step bringing him to stand between Aziraphale’s knees. As Crowley wraps a hand around himself and strokes, loose and slow and easy, a little teasing, until he’s fully hard.

 

    “Let me look at you.” He demands, his voice a hoarse whisper.

 

    Aziraphale shakes his head, but he pushes himself up just the same, removing his undershirt. He turns his face away, redder than ever, gasps when Crowley’s free hand caresses his chest. His hands are cool, his touch firm and confident. His pinky finger edges around a nipple, making Aziraphale whimper. His nipples had never reacted to anything before, except perhaps very extreme cold. They’ve only ever been decorative, really-- something to make his torso feel complete, because he was more likely to be shirtless than completely naked, and he felt weird not having them, not having a navel. Now, they feel tied into this brand new part of him, and that teasing touch goes straight to his hardening prick.

 

    “Ohh, very handsome, aren’t you?” Crowley coos, enjoying having an effect over him. He’s touched Aziraphale’s chest countless times now, he often sleeps pillowed against it, or leans back into him in the bath, or scrubs him clean in the shower, or else he comes up behind him and wraps his arms around him and caresses him, clothed or unclothed… and this is the same chest, the same hand, and yet so different. “So soft to the touch, too… I tell you, I’d love to suck on your tits.”

 

    That surprises Aziraphale into looking back up at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open beautifully.

 

    “You really mustn’t say such things!”

 

    “What, tits?” He tweaks the now-firm nipple, grinning when Aziraphale gasps, hips bucking up off the bed. “Maybe one of these days you’ll ask me to suck on something else… and if you ask me nicely, I will.”

 

    “Oh! Oh-- you _wicked_ man!” He turns away again, not quite hiding the light in his eyes, the smile tugging at his lips, his excitement, his _love_. “Never!”

 

    “But you can barely contain yourself as it is…” His grin doubles, and he shifts forward, thigh just brushing Aziraphale’s still-clothed erection. “Don’t tell me that’s nothing to do with me.”

 

    “Oh-- oh, you _beast_ …”

 

    “Shall I take care of what I’ve started?”

 

    Aziraphale bites his lip. He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no-- not even in character. Crowley doesn’t expect him to safeword, at this point, but he’d expected to have to figure out how to be all right with proceeding while listening to his protests, and he’s relieved not to have to.

 

    He drops gracefully to one knee, caressing Aziraphale’s thigh, gentle. “Let me? Let me teach you pleasure… let me show you what your body was made for, you were made to feel every kind of pleasure… Beautiful thing, let me show you how good a bad man can make you feel.”

 

    “So you admit you’re a bad man?” Aziraphale asks, his breath hitching just a little in an anticipatory gasp.

 

    “Oh, I’m very bad… but that’s just because no one’s reformed me yet. I could be _very_ good for you.”

 

    Aziraphale shivers. “You-- you would have to promise me!-- I have never known a lover’s touch, I-- You would have to promise me to-- Not to abandon me once you have had your wicked way with me once!”

 

    “As if I could stop at just once.” He winks up at him, one fingertip tracing over a button on the fly of Aziraphale’s drawers. “What awful stories you must have heard of me, to worry so. I can be true, love. I can be true to you. If you’ll let me?”

 

    Aziraphale still doesn’t say yes, can’t bring himself to. His head jerks in a little nod, though, and that’s enough. Crowley knows how to read him-- and even without that nod, he knows he is meant to proceed unless truly stopped. And yet he’s glad to have it. He draws him out, sighing in pleasure as he wraps his hand around Aziraphale’s hard cock. The heat of him, the firmness, the thickness, the soft skin… It’s so different from merely touching his own. And the whimper of pleasure felt for the first time after six thousand long years!

 

    Aziraphale keeps his eyes closed, keeps his head turned away, and perhaps another lover would feel slighted, but Crowley doesn’t. This is a lot to take in for him, if he needs a bit of distance he can have it. His love is not in doubt, only the question of whether he will decide this is an experiment worth repeating. And he makes a beautiful picture this way, seen from below, the soft column of his throat turned just so… the angle of his chin, the tension in the way he holds himself, the flush not only to his face but to that throat, to his heaving chest.

 

    Crowley presses a gentle kiss to his thigh, takes his hand reluctantly away just to get his palm slick with spit, and oh… to have Aziraphale back in his hand is a pleasure. To feel him shiver and buck his hips, to hear him grunt and whine.

 

    He finishes quickly after that, with an astonished little cry. His eyes fly open, though it’s a long moment before he turns to look at Crowley, at his pupils nearly round with want, at his chest streaked with come.

 

    “ _Oh_.” He reaches out, and stops himself touching. Crowley is tempted to bend his head a little and lap Aziraphale’s release from himself, but they are pretending to be people, and he would have to bend to an awkward degree to lick himself clean with a human tongue.

 

    “You see? Aren’t you pleased you relented? Didn’t it feel good to give yourself to me?”

 

    “Are-- are you still… unsatisfied?” Aziraphale licks his lips. “Only I’ve never--”

 

    Crowley rises, giving Aziraphale quite the view of his own cock, hard and just leaking.

 

    “Would you see me satisfied? By your own sweet hand?”

 

    “Oh!” And that hand flutters up to his breast, to cover his mouth, and then to reach out and hover in the space between them, waiting. He doesn’t protest and doesn’t resist, when Crowley takes it. He shivers with delight all over again when Crowley merely guides him to touch his abdomen, out of the way of it.

 

    He slides Aziraphale’s hand down, watches the way Aziraphale watches their progress now, where he had turned away before. Guides him to merely brush against his waiting cock at first, and Aziraphale gasps softly again when Crowley twitches in response. He can feel the most minute of movements, where they touch, can feel the way Aziraphale’s muscles long to take action and dare not guide things, where he just barely edges himself nearer. Crowley can take a hint-- he has to be able to, with Aziraphale, and not just where sex is concerned. Life with Aziraphale has been eons of reading between the lines, he’s gotten good at it now. He moves Aziraphale’s hand to wrap around his cock, to stroke.

 

    “Oh, like this?” He asks, breathless.

 

    “That’s right. This is what I did for you, just this. But I haven’t such lovely soft hands as you do… ohh, don’t think anyone’s got such lovely soft hands as you…”

 

    Aziraphale licks his lips, a smile twitching at them. The viscous fluid that leaks from Crowley’s cock, that spreads along his shaft with each stroke, he would have thought he would find it distasteful, unpleasant-- he always thought the amount of fluids involved in sex was excessive and not at all something he was interested in, and yet…

 

    And yet the sight of his own release on Crowley’s skin, the feel of him slick and hard in his hand, those things are not unpleasant to him at all. And to be used like this, as if his hand is merely a toy to be used, he doesn’t have to worry about liking it, he can just _like_ it.

 

    Crowley comes into his palm, with a loud, luxurious, drawn-out groan. He vanishes the mess before it can _become_ unpleasant, vanishes the mess from both of them, and then he helps Aziraphale back into his underthings, his pajamas, drawing him to lie in the center of their bed, to lie in his arms.

 

    “You did great.” He promises, dropping kisses to Aziraphale’s hair, as Aziraphale hides against his chest, safe in his hold. “You were beautiful… you were _brave_. It was a brand new thing for us both, that. I mean, I’ve done it for myself, but-- but it’s new for me, too. To have you… I was glad to. To have you. And if you never want to do it again, that’s fine. I’ve got a lovely memory to turn to. But I… I mean, if you did, then… You did great, that’s-- I just hope I did all right? And I was good for you?”

 

    “It was… it was good.” Aziraphale nods, his whole body cuddling into Crowley, holding onto him as if for dear life. “I would, again. Maybe-- maybe not-- I don’t know. Maybe just like that.”

 

    “We’ve got all the time in the world now to decide.” He smiles. “Aziraphale… we’ve got all the time in the world.”

 

    “Mm. Say it again.”

 

    “We’ve got all the time in the _world_.” He drawls. “Come up and kiss me?”

 

    Aziraphale obliges gladly, gentle and soft where his lips grace Crowley’s. He kisses him five or six times in rapid succession, smiling when they break away.

 

    “Thank you, dear. For indulging me.”

 

    “Thank you, angel. For trusting me.”

 

    “To the end of the world and back. I trust you more than I do myself.”

 

    “Well, _I_ trust you. And we’ve got all the time in the world for you to learn to trust yourself on this, if that’s what you want.”

 

    Something in Aziraphale’s smile changes, something in his eyes deepens, and he doesn’t speak, but Crowley hears him anyway. Maybe it won’t take all the time in the world…


	2. Stand and Deliver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale eases into a life of experiencing intermittent arousal.
> 
> He and Crowley discuss another potential fantasy.

    For near to a week, Aziraphale doesn’t ask about further experimentation, and so neither does Crowley. He keeps the equipment-- does encourage Crowley to touch if he likes when they share a shower, and he twitches softly in his hand, and squirms and softly laughs, and that’s that. Crowley doesn’t find the situation at all unsatisfactory, he likes the quiet intimacy, likes touching Aziraphale when he’s soft, when nothing will happen bar mutual cleanliness. He thinks the fact that Aziraphale’s kept the anatomy around means he’s accepted something about himself. They do have time to figure the rest out.

 

    It’s a nice little change. Not monumental. Comfortable.

 

    A couple of times, he uses the memory of their time together while taking care of himself, and that’s also… nice. Comfortable.

 

    He supposes Aziraphale isn’t the only one who needs to adjust to the change, making love with a partner being different as it is from a little self-indulgence. It had been… powerful. Even with the masks in place, the playing pretend, it had been a lot, to touch Aziraphale that way, to feel him come apart, to promise to be true to him in exchange for the permission to please…

 

    He wants the excuse to make those promises. He’s promised, of course, they both said a lot of things when they got their act together. But it had felt good to say it within this new context. With the idea that it would be Aziraphale’s love which would make him true-- with the idea that it would be Aziraphale’s love which might redeem a callow rogue. That he would go no more a-roamin’ on the strength of a kiss.

 

    It’s during the Friday evening preening that the subject arises. Well… something definitely rises, and this time it’s not just Crowley. He’s always managed to keep it under control, the occasional half-hard state preening might leave him in. He hadn’t taken into account what suddenly being hooked up to a sex drive, however minimal, might do to Aziraphale, already so _sensitive_.

 

    He’s used to Aziraphale moaning a bit-- he’s got a habit of digging in and massaging instead of merely grooming his wings. And he’s used to a bit of writhing, because Aziraphale really is just that sensitive, deliciously sensitive, likes to lie on his stomach with Crowley straddling his hips and working at him. Crowley’s struggle had always been to avoid making his own arousal into Aziraphale’s problem, but this time… this time is _different_.

 

    “Crowley, Crowley… Crowley, _ohh-- stop_ \--”

 

    He does, immediately, rolling off of him, and Aziraphale flutters and folds his wings, rolling onto his side, arousal evident, face red.

 

    “I’m sorry, my dear.” He looks away, though some of the worry bleeds out of him when Crowley touches his cheek.

 

    “Why don’t we take a tea break?” He offers. “It’s all right.”

 

    “Does it ever happen to you?” Aziraphale asks, still a little miserable, if not so much so.

 

    Crowley gestures down to his own state of arousal-- not as hard as Aziraphale is, but still very obvious within the confines of his silk pajama bottoms.

 

    “From doing mine?” His eyes go wide.

 

    “Yeah. Love doing yours.” Crowley groans, resisting the urge to reach out. Not what Aziraphale needs right now… but his wing is right _there_ , still so ruffled… “You just enjoy it so much, and I love the feel of you. Being able to touch you like this.”

 

    “And when I do yours?”

 

    He nods. “Yeah. I-- if I didn’t, you know, have that reaction, I think… I’d rather be in your lap, facing you, while you reach around me? But there’s no way it wouldn’t… I’d be pressed right up against you, it’d get out of control, I’d think. Look, you relax, come down a bit, I’ll bring you your tea right here, and then I’ll finish straightening you out, no digging in this time if it’s too much.”

 

    “Thank you, dear. Perhaps that’s for the best, just… just until I get used to it.”

 

    Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand, kissing it warmly. It’s steadying, and Aziraphale feels more on an even keel with that gentle affection. He focuses on breathing, when Crowley leaves the bed. He focuses on stilling himself, but all those _feelings_ … how is he meant to deal with them? Surely he can’t give up on their weekly preening! No, that’s unthinkable. He doesn’t know what he’d do without it. It’s the most intimate thing that they do, he couldn’t bear to lose it. Different, from sex-- or it always had been-- but achingly intimate, it _connects_ them. He’d be half himself if he didn’t have it.

 

    Crowley returns with their tea, and Aziraphale sits. He feels a bit more centered, he’s come down from the sharpest edge of it, but the tea should help him truly feel himself.

 

    “Thank you, dearheart.” He whispers, and Crowley kisses his cheek.

 

    “Oh, ‘dearheart’, must be doing something right.” Crowley remarks, smile fondly teasing.

 

    “You certainly are.”

 

    The looks they exchange over the rims of their teacups are warm and full of love. Not heated, not amorous, but shot through with such affection and such care. Crowley moves their empty cups to the nightstand when they’ve finished, and gestures to Aziraphale’s wings.

 

    “What if I smooth everything out without any more digging in? Think you could take it?”

 

    Aziraphale nods, though this time he just shift to kneel with his back to Crowley, instead of lying out as he normally does. Crowley doesn’t mention the change, just sets to gently righting all the ruffled feathers, paying attention to the way that Aziraphale shivers and sighs.

 

    “Ah-- dear?” His voice cuts through, when Crowley is not quite done, though he’s not too far from it. “Could we switch? Just… just to give me a moment?”

 

    “Of course.” Crowley stifles the urge to kiss the wing he’s been working on setting right. “I’ll do the last little bit when you’re ready.”

 

    They turn, and he spreads his own out into the position he always starts in, so that Aziraphale can begin with his scapulars.

 

    “Oh… oh, I do see what you mean…” Aziraphale says-- moans, really. Crowley just isn’t sure whether the moan is distress or arousal.

 

    In Aziraphale’s case, probably both.

 

    “About how it’s a turn on working on you?” He grins. Aziraphale tugs gently, finds the ones that need careful encouragement, leaves those still firmly attached, and as always, he’s so conscious of Crowley’s comfort.

 

    “It’s just… It’s not that I _forget_ , dear, during the week. It’s only…” Aziraphale reaches out to run his finger along a primary. “It’s only that you’re so very _delicate_. I remember the very first time I saw your wings. I was amazed they could look so delicate and bear you. And I thought… how wicked of me, to look at a demon and see only beauty. And how I was so afraid of anyone discovering that thought, that I pressed it down so long… Every time I see them, I am taken anew, that’s all. How light and how artful they seem. And how right I was to see beauty in you… even if I wasn’t ready to admit it then. How right I was… And to be the one to touch you!”

 

    Crowley groans, the praise going to his head as much as the preening. “So you admit it now?”

 

    “Readily.” Aziraphale kisses the center of his back, hands sweeping over Crowley’s coverts. “You’re so beautiful, love, and I’m so lucky to have you to take care of. I didn’t realize, though, I didn’t realize it would all be like _this_...”

 

    “There goes your plan to cool down?”

 

    “It’s different.” He says, and Crowley thinks he knows what he means. It is different, though it turns him on to preen Aziraphale as well as it does to be preened. When it’s Aziraphale’s hands working him over, soft and nimble and always gentle with him, sinking into him so intimately, Aziraphale smoothing out any barbs that have gone out of place, plucking away anything loose or broken… when it’s Aziraphale making him smooth and whole and perfect? Nothing compares to the feeling. The connection between them is the key to it both ways, but it’s the _surrender_. And just the physical sensation, which… he’s not really sure how he’d take it, if Aziraphale took to digging in the way he likes to do, but it’d probably be enough to make him come.

 

    It’s a trip to provide that pleasure. To feel the connection flow back, and to be in the position of making new and making neat. To have control over how much of that intense and indescribably wonderful thing someone else is feeling, to do it out of love… It’s good, it gets you hot if you’re wired to get hot, but it’s different. He knows Aziraphale could make him come without touching his cock just by working his wings thoroughly enough, but he wouldn’t come untouched from doing the same for him. It doesn’t make it less enjoyable-- coming has never been the point, to Crowley. Most of his existence he didn’t see any point to it at all, it was at least a thousand years before he masturbated, and at least five thousand years before he thought it was worth doing a second time.

 

    The point, to Crowley, is pleasure. The sustained enjoyment of it as much as the climactic high point. Sometimes, in his opinion, it’s better to be teased with the promise than to have it delivered on and then over and done with.

 

    The point, also, is this. Is Aziraphale, sharing the experience. Aziraphale, connected to him. Aziraphale, elbow deep in whatever passes for his soul. He doesn’t think either of them actually has a soul in the sense that people do, it’s a separate thing, but he’s gotten comfortable using the term anyway. He doesn’t need it to be precisely accurate. In times like these, when they bond at the deepest level, ‘soul’ is evocative, poetic. The point is, the point is, the point is Aziraphale.

 

    “You can take your time.” He tells him. “It’s all right.”

 

    “I’m all right.” Aziraphale’s forehead rests against the back of his neck. “It’s just… you’ve always been beautiful. I’m still learning how to handle being moved by it this way. It’s not that I’m seeing you in a new light… it’s not that anything about you has changed to me, I have changed. And it isn’t good or bad, necessarily, I don’t really think. I mean… autumn isn’t ‘good’ or ‘bad’ to summer, it merely _is_. It is different. But maybe this is just as much nature. My nature. It isn’t a perfect metaphor…”

 

    “That’s all right, too. I think I know.”

 

    Aziraphale drags one fingertip down the shaft of another primary, making him shiver. A velvet-soft touch along the vane follows, smoothing the barbs to lie neat. He has less work to do, Crowley’s wings tend towards neatness and order, but Aziraphale still takes the time to preen them with all the care his own fussy, frumpy angel’s wings require. And his hands, oh… Crowley has admired his hands for eons. Even in Eden… they had been soft.

 

    He’d worn a flaming sword at his hip, flames which never guttered or faltered, and which never burned him, never seemed to touch his robes or singe his own feathers. He’d worn a sword, built for powerful attacks, heavy and with cutting edges to slash with, a pointed tip for thrusting and stabbing… He’d worn a sword but his hands were soft. There were no calluses from practice, let alone combat. Crowley had trusted him.

 

    It took time, of course-- they both took time, to become themselves. To be able to look human in the vessels they inhabited, and then to begin to look like the same human even when a new vessel was required. It took time for Aziraphale to acquire his attractive plumpness, as an all-over trait, but once he discovered the size and shape at which he was comfortable, each vessel took that on. And it served to make his hands softer still! To have that pillow of fat over the muscle, to have the power behind his touch without sacrificing that perfect softness…

 

    You couldn’t ask for a more perfect pair of hands. Crowley couldn’t. Hands that are still dextrous, fingers which are thick and perhaps a bit blunt, but not short. Palms well padded, backs smooth-- oh, Crowley could feel out the bones and tendons in them if he wished, could trace his fingers over them as Aziraphale flexed and could feel them at work, but they never stand out, never spoil the smooth and gentle surface, and something about that… it instills a sort of confidence. It makes them feel like such safe hands to be in, makes them seem steady.

 

    Aziraphale had called him delicate-- in appearance, at least-- and his own hands are the same way. Long and slender, moving parts too visible, veins visible… He’s not self-conscious about them, they’ve been considered attractive, rather in fashion during some periods. He doesn’t wish them otherwise when they suit his body, suit his whole look. But if they were on someone else, they wouldn’t make him feel anything. Because they are his, he likes that they would be considered beautiful by many. He likes that they echo his wings in their delicacy, that Aziraphale find them beautiful in the same way. He’s been known to admire himself, but it’s Aziraphale he considers truly ideal. The balance of strength and tenderness, the pleasing soft shape… He, too, echoes his wings. How plush they are with feathers, and how sturdy they are in shape. How big and full, and how to be wrapped in them is to be safe from anything in the world. The power behind them and the softness of their touch.

 

    He shifts in response to Aziraphale, the routine familiar and comfortable, making himself reachable when Aziraphale finishes with one segment and needs to access the next. The only difference is that this time, Aziraphale’s forehead remains resting against him. The only difference is that this time, Crowley can feel him breathe and know he is affected. The only difference is that this time, they are sharing this aspect of the experience as well, their arousal.

 

    The routine steadies him. He’d broken from it a bit, to stroke a little more and to praise, but when the feeling had grown too much again, to fall back on the familiar… It helps. To press his lust-fevered brow to Crowley’s cool skin helps.

 

    He feels out every feather, searching for the slightest disruption in their regular perfection. Even the demonic ultra-neatness could sometimes hide a little bit of damage in need of special care-- indeed, it was even more important to take care with Crowley, who always had the look of flawless smoothness. The first time they’d done this, he’d exclaimed over how beautiful they were only to discover hidden an awful mess of neglect deep down. Grooming your own wings isn’t easy, he knows. His had gone without for a long time, too…

 

    It had taken them ages that first time. He remembers Crowley’s rueful chuckle, his ‘not so beautiful deep down, are they?’, and the way he’d melted when Aziraphale had said they still were, they always were. The way it had felt to touch the essence of him. The painstaking slowness as he’d eased out damaged feathers, his apologetic kisses for each wince. The sweet pleasure of smoothing it all out again and feeling Crowley melt. He’d been _wonderful_. And it had been amazing to be groomed, after so long without-- it had been so much more than anything he’d had before. Crowley had erased his own neglect, and sighed over his softness, and begged to be allowed to snuggle into them once they were done, as if he could have refused him…

 

    When he finishes, he takes some time just to rest as he is. Just to kiss his shoulders and gently squeeze his hips. To ground himself in the physical reality of Crowley, comfortingly undemanding.

 

    Well, no… Crowley is the most demanding creature Aziraphale can imagine. But he has only ever demanded the things Aziraphale can give. Indeed, the things Aziraphale loves giving. He demands his love and his attention, his kisses, demands to trade tastes of meals, demands to be read aloud to. He demands full-body cuddles in their bed at night, Aziraphale’s warmth…

 

    In time, he’s sure he can sink himself into Crowley’s essence through their preening, without being distressed by this feeling. It’s a good feeling but it’s still too much. But like Crowley, he can learn to deal with it. To enjoy it for what it is and to let it go.

 

    “Feels good.” Crowley hums, reaching back to ruffle his hair. “Thanks, angel. Always so gentle with me…”

 

    “You deserve it.” He kisses his way from one shoulder to the other. Crowley doesn’t fold his wings all the way away-- he won’t until they’ve both finished, and a little ways after. That’s the routine, they keep them out together. But he drops them down to allow easier access for kisses, lets them rest on the bed. Spread out and beautiful to look at.

 

    Just looking at them stirs him now… Just looking at them is enough to spark a longing to dive deeper. Perhaps in time. Oh, he knows in time he will have an easier time with self-control, but perhaps in time they won’t need it. Perhaps in time they will want to follow that feeling together. It’s frightening to think of now, but they have a long future ahead of them. It won’t always be.

 

    “You deserve a little gentleness, too. Shall I be gentle with the rest of you?” And Crowley’s voice rumbles deep and low with the offer, warmly seductive. Not sexually seductive, but the way he always is, when he suggests a piece of cake or a lie-in, or suggests he might buy a special trinket because he knows Aziraphale will like having it and won’t buy it for himself.

 

    “In just a moment, beautiful boy.” He nuzzles at the back of his neck, presses his forehead there again. “In just a moment.”

 

    Crowley gives him his moment, and then they turn again, and this time, Crowley is focused, his touch light and careful. He skips the massaging and the extra ruffling and just finishes the job of grooming, neatening the last couple of patches, and then making sure that the vanes of each primary lie perfect. Aziraphale is still shaky by the time he’s done.

 

    “That’s good… that’s right.” He sighs. It feels so unfinished, not to have done it all. He misses that deep dive into Aziraphale, and he misses so many things he used to be able to do without worry, but… he wouldn’t enjoy any of it if Aziraphale wasn’t comfortable, he wouldn’t enjoy it at all. “You just breathe… you just breathe, you’re doing great. You’ll get used to it.”

 

    “Really?”

 

    “Yeah.”

 

    “Crowley… you want to kiss me.”

 

    It isn’t a question. It needn’t be. Crowley always kisses him. He kisses him so fervently, he kisses him so many times… in the time they’ve been together this way, Crowley has covered every inch of Aziraphale’s wings in kisses.

 

    “Always want to kiss you, angel.” He shrugs, and kisses the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

 

    “Not there.”

 

    “Hush. Always want to kiss you here, too. Always want to kiss you everywhere.” His hand skims Aziraphale’s side. “Now don’t be silly.”

 

    “Can’t help it. I am silly. I’m a big silly-- moment-ruining--”

 

    “Shh, shh, no… You ssstop that, now, you haven’t ruined _anything_.”

 

    “You can.” There’s a desperate edge to Aziraphale’s voice, and there’s a tone Crowley recognizes, one he hates. “You could just kiss one once and then we’ll both put them away and it’s fine.”

 

    “No.” He says, and hates saying it, but there’s worse…

 

    “But--”

 

    “Angel, you think I don’t know by now when you’re hoping to fool yourself?” He squeezes his hip. “You’re not comfortable with that, so I’m not comfortable with it. Do I want to kiss you? Always. Do I want to have done as usual? Yes, ideally. If it would have felt good to you I would have. Not if it’s too raw. Not if it hurts you.”

 

    “Maybe it won’t…”

 

    “On three, we put them away for this time. And I’ll kiss you everywhere else. I’m not comfortable taking the risk, all right? I’m not comfortable with the thought I could hurt you.”

   

    Aziraphale had been preparing to protest, but at that, he falls silent-- if it were the other way around, if Crowley offered him something he knew might hurt, if he’d inadvertently upset him, the guilt would be unbearable. He could never risk Crowley’s well-being just because he wanted a certain touch to be okay. He can’t ask Crowley to risk his.

 

    “On three.” He says, though it doesn’t feel right. They don’t count out loud, they don’t need to. The wings fold away at the same time.

 

    Aziraphale flops out, welcoming Crowley to come and lie against him, to come be held in his arms. Normally they spend more time with their wings out. Normally after a preening, Crowley will stretch out at his side, and Aziraphale will lie on his stomach again and tent a wing over him, forming a well-insulated shelter warmed by the heat of his body, making a pleasant place for a cold-blooded demon to relax. And if Aziraphale’s wing brushed against Crowley’s, where they lay folded at his back, well…

 

    Wing to wing contact is… something. It’s powerful and it’s pleasure, but it had always been the pleasure of that soul-deep communion, before. Now, Aziraphale is afraid of what it might be, but he doesn’t want to be afraid. He doesn’t want to be afraid of any intimacy between the two of them. He just wasn’t prepared for this…

 

    Crowley snuggles into him and immediately begins kissing his neck. It’s promise and apology wrapped up in one-- things will feel right again. They’ll learn to make it right. Neither of them knows how just yet, or quite knows how to discuss half the things they’d like, but they’re moving in the right direction.

 

    “I love you.” Crowley says, and it doesn’t feel like _enough_ , it never feels like enough. But how can anything be, for Aziraphale?

 

    “I love you.” Aziraphale echoes, and it doesn’t feel like enough, either. But how can anything be, for Crowley?

 

    In the morning, Crowley is still tucked firmly and safely in the circle of Aziraphale’s arms. He wakes at last to a hand rubbing gentle ovals up and down his back, the other absently palming at his arse. Between the two, it’s the one that sometimes lingers in its sweep past his shoulderblades which feels more sexually charged.

 

    “Mm, morning. What are you thinking about?” He asks, and flicks his tongue across Aziraphale’s throat to make him squirm at the tickle.

 

    “You. Or… I was remembering an outfit you used to have. Half-remembering.” He adds modestly, as if his recall isn’t preternatural. “Nevermind. Do you fancy anything today?”

 

    “You.” Crowley grins. “No, no, let me take you out for breakfast. I know last night felt… unsatisfying, and like a lot to adjust to. So let’s have something really special to cheer ourselves up with, and then we’ll go for a stroll. See a film if you like. Anything.”

 

    “Anything?” Aziraphale smiles, half-hesitant until something he finds in Crowley’s eyes answers the question. “Well, all right. Shower with me first?”

 

    They don’t need to. They’d never need to if they didn’t wish to, but it’s a nice shower. Within its confines, it feels safe to touch and be touched, wet skin and sudsy lathers and lazily roaming hands. Things are playful. Things are peaceful.

 

    When they do make their way to a nice breakfast spot, Crowley orders for them, saying they’ll split the full breakfast and that they won’t need a second plate. He feeds Aziraphale nearly every bite himself, taking a single taste of most things-- no taste of a couple things, though he makes up for that by eating all the kippers. Aziraphale does not begrudge him at all, especially not when Crowley is attentively feeding him bite after bite of everything else.

 

    There’s… an awareness, between them.  They’ve acknowledged it, that this, too, can be something more. Anything Crowley feeds him with a fork or a spoon, Aziraphale had deemed safe. They had some rough guidelines for finger food. Nothing they were going to do in a public place was going to get sexual. But… there was that safe zone, the place where Crowley got something out of it, where Aziraphale might have the odd thrill but where he mostly just enjoyed being catered to, and the pleasure of breakfast itself. It works.

 

    They agree on a film after, and after that, a brief stop by the wine shop before heading on to the park.

 

    “Should I have brought a picnic blanket in the car?”

 

    “No. This is to have on the rowboat.” Aziraphale smiles shyly, gaze darting to meet Crowley’s, before he lays his head against his shoulder.

 

    “The rowboat?” Crowley raises his eyebrows, chuckling softly. Had that been the thing he’d wanted to ask about that morning? “Been ages since we’ve taken a rowboat out anywhere. You remember that excursion we took?”

 

    “I remember it well. Nineteen hundred and eight. Of course that was on a river… but the pond here shall do today, I do think.”

 

    “You read to me. And made me do all the rowing.”

 

    “What rowing?” He snorts. “The river did all the work, my dear, you only angled us out into it and then back to shore. There was only one set of oars, as I recall, and you never asked me to do any of the work. Though if I had made you done, you’d have deserved it after disappearing on me like you had. You liked the book.”

 

    “I did. Do you have one today?”

 

    “It’s a very light volume of poetry… but it’s something. And we might just… talk.”

 

    Crowley entertains the idea of kissing, not without some passion. Or of kissing Aziraphale’s hand, and then up his arm, until he laughs and presents his cheek, until he relents and presents his lips.

 

    They don’t go to the little launch where rowboats might be rented. Crowley draws Aziraphale away to a secluded spot and conjures one up for them instead. No bench seats, but loads of cushions to bed themselves down in, and an old-fashioned battenberg lace parasol.

 

    “Why, my dear Crowley…” Aziraphale accepts his helping hand, settling in at the end with the parasol.

 

    “They wouldn’t let you rent one with a bottle of wine in your hand, you know. Thought we’d sidestep all that.”

 

    “Mm. Yes, well. It’s not as if anything bad would come of our capsizing that we couldn’t easily undo.” He chuckles, opening the bottle as Crowley pushes off. “My dear… do you remember that frock coat you had-- oh, it must have been early on in the eighteenth century, and you’d a whole outfit with it. It was velvet, it was… it was just so.”

 

    “Was it a black one?”

 

    “No, no, much later, you had a black wool one with velvet lapels and cuffs, and velvet flaps over the pockets, before that it was all velvet, and it was… not quite burgundy, but very near it?”

 

    “Was it this one?” Crowley grins, and with a wave of the hand he has it back again, though it looks a bit out of place with what remains of his modern suit.

 

    “The buttons were silver, of course.” Aziraphale smiles, watching as Crowley changes them. “Yes, that’s the one. That’s as I was remembering this morning. Only of course you had the whole look. You’d these boots, and the impossible leather breeches… the way they hugged you, even without a libido I’d noticed that, love. And the lace and the jewels, I remember you rather brazenly inviting yourself to some lordship’s estate and driving up in his own stolen carriage, just to talk your way out of the trouble it should’ve got you!”

 

    “Yeah, old wossname…” Crowley laughs. “What were _you_ doing there, I never found out?”

 

    “My dear, you didn’t know? I was authenticating his First Folio. The one which went missing before I could clap eyes on it? The one which I heavily suspect _someone_ gave to me some two hundred years later as an apology present?”

 

    “Oh, I just stole it.” Crowley grins. “Because. Well, because I knew eventually I’d piss you off and you’d forgive me just about anything if I dangled the right present in front of you…”

 

    “What cheek!”

 

    “You always have! You forgive me right away if I bring you something!”

 

    “It isn’t about the present, it’s about the fact you show you care. And you pick things I _like_ , which means even after disappearing on me for a hundred years, you remember the last time you listened to me.” Aziraphale says, his eyes on the water, on the darting of fish beneath the surface, and the way the ripples catch the sunlight, how it dances.

 

    “I do listen to you.” Crowley locks the oars into place. He reaches out to take the wine, to drink from the bottle after Aziraphale, and then to pass it back.

 

    “I know. You always have. Shall I read?”

 

    “Please.” He nods. The book Aziraphale draws out isn’t one of his precious volumes, it’s a barely-battered paperback which calls itself ‘Favorite Poems’, though whose favorite poems, Crowley couldn’t guess. He watches with delight as Aziraphale puts on his Serious Read-Aloud face, his posture prim. Watches the overwrought and dramatic sigh before beginning.

 

    “Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing, and like enough thou know’st thy estimate…” He begins, and Crowley falls easily under his spell. He stays there for a few poems, and then Aziraphale sets the book aside, takes a long drink of wine, and closes his eyes, shifting to lounge.

 

    Crowley shifts to join him, lying down along the length of their old-fashioned little rowboat, with his head pillowed over Aziraphale’s heart. The picture they’d make, to anyone who saw them… Aziraphale, dressed like he might have stepped out of the nineteen thirties, swooning beneath a parasol, sharing a bottle of wine with Crowley in his eighteenth century coat…

 

    Crowley takes a swig, holding it in his mouth and bringing their lips together. Feeling Aziraphale’s surprise give way to flustered acceptance. He holds a hand to his throat, feeling him swallow. This…

 

    They’d done it once before. They hadn’t been lovers, only very, very drunk. Aziraphale had wailed out a complaint over Crowley taking the last of one of his best bottles, and on a wild and intoxicated whim, Crowley had dragged him in close to drink it from his mouth, if he was so attached to it. It had been messy-- it’s much neater now-- and Aziraphale had made a fuss and Crowley had laughed. And then Crowley had apologized, and Aziraphale had… Aziraphale had kissed his cheek and then seemed surprised to have done it, and told him not to be silly, not to be silly…

 

    And now…

 

    It’s not the same as feeding him, exactly. Food is different, food is nurturing, food is filling. It’s a special kind of care, even if their kinds don’t need it. They’ve both been around humankind long enough to build strong associations around the giving and sharing of food, far more important than anything that might be considered a lack of biological imperative. Even so, Crowley can’t call himself unmoved, by the experience. By the way Aziraphale looks up at him, wide-eyed, when they part. By the little trickle of escaped wine down his chin, easily lapped up by a greedy, questing tongue.

 

    “Oh, you incorrigible creature…” He sighs, threading his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “You do take liberties with me.”

 

    “I love taking liberties with you.” He mouths at Aziraphale’s jaw, lazy sucking kisses to the soft line of it. “You’re so… so deliciously _ripe_ for the plucking. Looking for a callow rogue to come and seduce you? Is this rowboat a place we might find ourselves, on that weekend in the country?”

 

    “Oh, no, not in this coat…” Aziraphale says, hand sliding along the velvet sleeve. “Not with the way you used to dress…, with those boots and the leather gloves and breeches that fit to you as if by magic-- not that I ever would have doubted it was what it was-- and with all the tat, and that stolen coach you came riding in on… You were no mere high society rogue, my dear, you… you were a dashing highwayman.”

 

    “Do you like that?” Crowley grins, hand moving to squeeze Aziraphale’s hip as he lifts his head to regard him. He had, in fact, briefly fallen in with a small gang doing just that. It was never his gang, but he’d told Hell he was the mastermind. He’d told himself it was Aziraphale’s influence and not his own squeamishness that meant no lives were ever taken when he was marauding with them. “Shall I play the highwayman for you?”

 

    “I don’t know…” He continues to stroke at the plush velvet of the coat-- or perhaps more at the demon in the coat-- his tone coy. “Will you say to me that you are after a prize more precious than my gold?”

 

    Crowley’s glasses slide down his nose. Aziraphale can see the light of desire flare in his eyes at the idea.

 

    “I will.” He promises. “I’m only after the sweetest treasure there is… redder than rubies and the size of your fist, and you keep it… right… here.”

 

    He taps at Aziraphale’s chest, earning a delighted little laugh.

 

    “I could do the full costume.” He adds. “With a mask. With props, even. Shall we? My precious prey…”

 

    “Oh, not _here_!” Aziraphale exclaims, though he holds Crowley’s arm a little tighter, and it’s desire as much as embarrassment that pinks his cheeks. “Crowley, people can _see_ us!”

 

    “Not if we don’t want them to.”

 

    “Broad daylight, you hooligan! Suppose our concentration faltered and right at the _moment_ , we became visible and audible again?”

 

    Crowley can’t help laughing at that, actually. Two half-dressed men, at least one of them in historical costume, suddenly appearing on a rowboat in the middle of the pond, mid-coitus? They’d restore their cloak from the world and anyone who did see would think it a wild hallucination, surely. A couple seconds of something too bizarre to ever tell anyone about, and too far out to reliably recognize.

 

    “All right, not here.” He says, just the same. It’s enough redefining of boundaries for Aziraphale to want to at all, he definitely doesn’t want to push him on public daytime sex. “I just like teasing you.”

 

    “Yes, you naughty boy, I know you do.”

 

    “Ooh, angel, _scold_ me.” He chuckles, snuggling back down against him.

 

    “Not here, if that’s how you’re going to get.”

 

    “You know… you know there are, ah… museum exhibits, that have old coaches.”

 

    “You want to plan a research trip?” Aziraphale chuckles, playing with his hair. “I’m always happy to go to a museum with you, my dear, but I think we both remember enough about what a coach is like for the fantasy.”

 

    “But a coach isn’t like a bed.” Crowley insists. “A bed in a manor house is enough like a bed in our house. To carry out a fantasy set in a coach…”

 

    “Crowley, we _couldn’t_!”

 

    “After hours, a little interference with the cameras.” He wheedles. “We’ll miracle away any sign of our ever having been there, no harm… Wouldn’t it be better that way?”

 

    “Well… we shall consider the possibility.” He picks up the wine bottle and presses it into Crowley’s hand. “For now, let’s finish this.”

 

    “Mm, you want to share another drink?”

 

    Aziraphale’s cheeks go even pinker, but he doesn’t deny it. This time, he opens his mouth to Crowley so readily, lips sealing together so perfectly… Too perfectly, Crowley is a little disappointed not to have spilled wine to lick up, if he’s honest, but he loves that Aziraphale has agreed, shy and giddy, to let himself be catered to so. He keeps the bottle in his possession, shares half of each mouthful with Aziraphale, one hand wrapped gentle around his throat to feel him swallow it, Aziraphale stroking his back, holding him near…

 

    “You would do the whole outfit, if we went to the museum?” Aziraphale asks dreamily, the wine gone, Crowley’s lips ghosting over his jaw yet again. “With a mask?”

 

    Back then, Crowley had worn a mask, sheer black fabric covering the whole thing, eyes and all. He could see out, but no one could see in. With Aziraphale, for fantasy purposes, he thinks he’ll invent himself a new mask. Something prettier, for show. Something that would let Aziraphale see his eyes.

 

    “The whole outfit. The tricorne, the boots, the jewels… Do you want me carrying pistols or a sword?”

 

    “Both, if you like. Or--”

 

    “Or?” Crowley grins, nuzzling up towards an ear.

 

    “Or whatever you like.” Aziraphale sighs, clinging to him. “Darling, take me to the museum.”

  
    “Angel, I _will_.”


	3. Your Money Or Your Life

    Crowley goes all out on his look for their ‘date’ to the museum. With Aziraphale sparking his memory, he finds he has what he thinks is a pretty accurate recreation of what he’d worn back then, for most of his few outings as a criminal. The beautiful velvet frock coat, the lace dripping from his cuffs and bunched at his throat. The black leather breeches and gloves which conform so perfectly to him, the embroidered waistcoat, burgundy like the coat, edged with delicate leafy branches in silver thread, with jet black snakes coiling along them. The hat, the mask-- this time around, the same deep velvet as the coat, on a black silk ribbon. This time, with wide open holes for the eyes. The boots, with their cuffs unfolded to come up past his knee, up to his thigh. With the slight heel that gave him another couple inches of height.

 

    He considers props. He’d carried pistols and a sword both, and never needed to use either, back when he’d ridden with highwaymen before. They’d been handsome weapons, but he has no real love for them, and he expects Aziraphale hasn’t, either. He gives himself a whip, for the suggestion that he’d be using it to drive a horse on, and he gives himself a jeweled dagger, and he gives himself a long admiring look in the mirror.

 

    Aziraphale doesn’t normally do what Crowley does, with clothes, but for tonight he thinks it best he manifest a costume. Anything he might still have from the time is too delicate for… well, for something like this. The things he has, he keeps very carefully, though sometimes when they’re too old and fragile to wear, he still can’t bring himself to give them up.

 

    He gives himself a nice suit, maybe a little too nice. He’s dressed well in the past, of course, when he thought he might need to blend in with the rich and powerful in order to do his job, but he’d never given himself _this_. He’s dressed nobly now and again, but this… this is all for Crowley’s benefit. To be able to strip him of such finery, to be able to destroy it if he likes because it wasn’t real. To be able to play the role, with Aziraphale as a tempting target.

 

    A suit of white silk, embroidered in gold, brass buttons polished to a golden sheen. Soft lace, hose… well, as long as he’s cheating, he thinks he can cheat a little on the hose. It hugs his calves the way it never did back in the old days, and the golden flowers embroidered in a line up the back are finer. Silk gloves, and then shoes… barely a heel, it’s been ages since he’s worn a heel over an inch and a half. Enough of one to give him a little bit of a boost. His calves do look a _little_ nicer with that bit of lift. And how long has it been since he’s shown off his calves at all? He finishes it with a jeweled pin at his throat, glittering at the knot of his cravat, one rather ostentatious ring summoned from the firmament, one which he’s worn since Crowley put it on his finger, and one… well, Crowley already _has_ a ring from him, yes, but there’s no reason he couldn’t give him another, and why not do it as part of a game?

 

    When he steps out of the bath, he and Crowley see each other for the first time, and Aziraphale feels half ready to swoon at the sight of him, not to mention the way Crowley’s eyes rake over him with open interest.

 

    “Well, well, well… look at _you_. Sumptuous…” Crowley purrs, gesturing for him to turn. “Oh, Aziraphale, it was a _crime_ men’s fashion changed, when you used to have your calves on display all the time back before I was allowed to touch them.”

 

    “You can touch them tonight.” Aziraphale smiles. “I-- I could show them off around the house now and then, if you feel that strongly about them.”

 

    “I _do_.”

 

    Aziraphale’s smile widens and he bites his lip to try and control it. “You look very handsome yourself. Slight liberties taken with the mask, but… very much appreciated. Is-- is that a whip?”

 

    “Purely for show.”

 

    “Er, yes, well. Good.” He licks his lips. “I don’t mind it for show!”

 

    “No?” He grins, stepping forward, hand moving to Aziraphale’s hip. “Don’t mind if I do a bit of threatening, so long as it’s all for show? A bit of bluster? Only you’ll know I’m not really that bad… and I’d never want to hurt a pretty thing like you.”

 

    “We’re not going to make it to the museum if you start sweet talking me _now_.” Aziraphale blushes.

 

    Crowley laughs. “Sweet talking, he calls it! Very well, I’ll pull the car around, you take a couple deep breaths and then come join me.”

 

    Aziraphale takes those deep breaths. Crowley finds himself whistling, as he jogs down the stairs and out to the garage. He’s still whistling when he opens Aziraphale’s door.

 

    Aziraphale… the whistling dies away a little, as he takes him in again. How _radiant_ he looks, and how _wealthy_. He’d be stopping his coach on the way to some fancy party, some big event, in a get-up like that, and he’d be stopping a very rich man. Young, he assumes-- Aziraphale will be playing the part of a young man, unmarried and unversed. It would be hard to play the role he wants at the age he appears. But then… apparent age has never really mattered. Nothing about it feels silly to Crowley, anyway.

 

    “Same safeword?” He asks, pulling out onto the road.

 

    “I think so, yes.”

 

    “You’ll be in your coach and I’ll stop and board you. Traveling alone, or shall we pretend I let the others go?”

 

    “Well, you’d be letting the driver run off, I suppose, so you could let others go if it feels right. And… and I-- I’m on my way to a ball.”

 

    “I assumed, yeah.” Crowley nods. “Dressed so nice.”

 

    “I’m on my way to a ball, and I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be forced into dancing with eligible partners, to be shopped around to the right families, promised away. And then you stop me.”

 

    “Then I stop you. And I can’t be expected to resist someone as soft and pretty and innocent as you.” He leers, can practically feel the heat of Aziraphale’s blush. “If it’s all right with you, I thought I’d use my mouth on you. You can still use your hand, like before.”

 

    “Er… we’ll see. I mean, I’d like-- I’d like it, but I might need to… to do like before.”

 

    “That’s just fine. Your hand’s more than good enough for me. Permission to destroy everything you’re wearing?”

 

    “I suppose I can just miracle myself dressed again after.” Aziraphale nods, and his body is being quite insistent about the whole arousal business already. “You may, if you like. And you may threaten me, of course.”

 

    “Maybe a little. Just for show. But… Aziraphale-- the person you’re being, he wants it, yeah? Deep down, even if he can’t admit it?”

 

    “Oh, yes, of course. A handsome criminal who might relieve me of my innocence? Of course. Especially as you’d be keeping me from the awful fate awaiting me had I not been stopped. I’d be quite attracted to you. I’d put up a token show of resistance for propriety’s sake, but it’s all for appearances. No, the person I would be, he wants it.”

 

    “Good. Good. I mean-- I know it’s silly, because I know _you_ want it, but…”

 

    “It’s not silly.” Aziraphale smiles, laying his hand on Crowley’s arm. “You deserve to feel wanted in all this. I-- And I want to make you feel that way! I just… I don’t know how to-- to be that person. To be that person who can say what he wants and feel… feel comfortable with it.”

 

    “You take your time. You make me feel wanted, love. I know you can’t just say it the way you’d like to, but when you look at me, when we’re… when we cross one of those lines, I can taste it coming off of you. I know you feel _desire_. And I know you don’t always feel comfortable acting on it, but that won’t make me feel any less wanted.”

 

    “I like doing this.” He leaves his hand on Crowley’s arm, his voice softer, barely heard against the roar of the road passing so rapidly beneath them. “Being people, with you. Thinking about it… well, you know. It’s exciting to know that we _will_. And I feel safe, knowing that if I can’t… if I can’t tell you what I want, you’ll still be able to… That you know me so well, and you trust me, too. That we can have this, even when I-- when I need it to be a certain way.”

 

    “I like doing this, too. Being people with you.” A very warm grin curls at Crowley’s lips. “I’m glad I make you feel safe. I’d never want-- you know? For anything else.”

 

    “I know. And you never will.”

 

    Crowley nods. The rest of the drive is silent, but the rest of the drive is short. When they reach the museum, Crowley starts by seeing to it that the Bentley won’t be seen, before cloaking himself to steal inside with Aziraphale.

 

    It’s easy enough to go unseen by mortal eyes-- or by security camera, and Aziraphale arranges for the one on the door to have a little hiccup in recording, so as not to display the previously locked door swinging open and then shut.

 

    Crowley offers Aziraphale a hand in boarding the coach they find on display, and then he gives him a moment to calm down and get into character, as he does the same.

 

    And then, he gives into temptation, and lets the camera catch a two second flash of him, as he leaps up to board the coach himself, coat flying out behind him and whip in hand.

 

    He throws the door open, drinking in Aziraphale’s attempt at playing shocked-- and the very clear desire coming off him.

 

    “Stay right where you are, my pretty little captive.” He brings the butt of the whip under Aziraphale’s chin. They can pretend the tremor that runs through him is fear, sure, but… all Crowley has to do is open his mouth and breathe in the air between them to taste just how thick the desire is. “And where have I caught you on your way to? Dressed so fine as you are… dressed like a very wealthy young man.”

 

    “Lord Wolstone’s ball. Please, Sir, I have only what you see on me.”

 

    “Is that so? I’m afraid I shall make you unfashionably late.” He moves closer still, to crouch between Aziraphale’s knees, pushing them wider. “And I must find a way of making my time profitable, and you with no purse… Shall I send you on to your ball robbed of your jewels? Would you be disgraced to appear without them? Perhaps I should leave them right where they are and relieve you of your coach and horses, instead.”

 

    “And _strand_ me?”

 

    “Mm, you’re right, such an awfully long way to walk, and at night, too… you’d be unlikely to reach your ball. Wandering the woods at night… why, there are so many bad men out there, pet. I’d know.” He grins, and sets the whip aside, and takes Aziraphale’s chin in hand. “They don’t get any badder than me.”

 

    “Oh-- oh, _Sir_ , I beg you…”

 

    “Suppose you grant me a favor, pretty, and I’ll let you go?” He licks his lips.

 

    “Oh-- er-- You would let me go? Unharmed?”

 

    “You have my word. But you must give me what I want.”

 

    Aziraphale takes the pin from his cravat, with trembling fingers, holding it out only for Crowley to gently, _carefully_ fold his hand back around it in refusal.

 

    “Oh no… no, what I want… what I want is more rare and precious than this little bauble.”

 

    “I really have nothing--”

 

    “Grant me your lips. Let me kiss them. Let me taste the ruby of your mouth… would you do that, to keep your coach and horses?”

 

    Aziraphale nods, leaning forward, presenting himself. His eyes flutter closed, his lips part so _delicately_. The thrum of want that vibrates through him is as delicious as anything Crowley’s ever known. He leans up to meet him, savoring the tension of the moment, the longing. He winds a hand into his hair, grip firm, and kisses him deeply, feels the way he responds to it, the hesitancy and the hunger. The little whimper when Crowley bites at his lower lip, and when he thrusts his tongue into a delightfully unresisting mouth.

 

    “Does-- does that please you?” Aziraphale whispers.

 

    “Oh, pretty little pet, that _inflames_ me.” He sighs, and his hand steals up to unknot Aziraphale’s cravat. “I must have more of you…”

 

    “You mustn’t!” Aziraphale gasps, straightening up.

 

    “I will have you, or I will have your horses, your coach… and leave you wandering the dangerous wood in all your finery. And every wicked bad man from here to the ball will wish to have a piece of you, pretty as you are. They’ll take your jewels and they’ll take your silken clothes, and they’ll leave you out there, naked and shivering by the side of the road, and you shall wish you’d taken my bargain.”

 

    “My virtue is worth more to me than any possessions.”

 

    “ _Virtue_!” Crowley’s eyes light up. “Now there’s a prize worth taking, your virtue. There’s a treasure worth more by far than any diamond. Has no man trespassed upon your lips before me? Will I be the first to taste your lovely throat? Upon my word! What good fortune I have found this night, my pet.”

 

    “You would ruin me!” Aziraphale turns his head away, but he leans forward slightly.

 

    “I would ruin you for any other lover’s touch, that’s what I would ruin.” He grins, rising up to tug away the cravat, to latch onto the soft throat beneath. Aziraphale cries out softly, at the hint of teeth, and Crowley slides two fingers into his open mouth and feels the way Aziraphale’s lips close around them, the heat straight through his gloves, the leather so thin he can feel the touch of Aziraphale’s tongue so acutely even with them on.  “Oh, you _wanton_ , it’s as if you’ve only been waiting for me to come and rob you of your virtue…”

 

    “N-no…” Aziraphale pulls away from the fingers in his mouth, but not from Crowley, not from the series of kisses to his throat, sucking and biting. “Oh…”

 

    “Did you pray I would be handsome, when I found you? Did you hope for me to be gentle-- or did you long for me to be _rough_?”

 

    He pushes three fingers into his mouth this time, before biting down, feeling the moan, the eager and obedient way Aziraphale sucks… Oh yes, another time, he can imagine sliding something else entirely into that waiting mouth. But best to give him time to get used to the idea, best to give them both time.

 

    Crowley’s other hand gropes at Aziraphale’s thigh, and Aziraphale moans again, feeling a delightful helplessness come over him. He’s Crowley’s to use, like before, maybe even moreso… the taste of leather goes to his head.

 

    Everything about Crowley goes to his head.

 

    He can feel that same desperate arousal, and the reassuring freedom that comes with being so overwhelmed, that comes with being told he has no real choice. He can’t make the wrong choice if there’s no choice at all, and if he can’t make the wrong choice, maybe he isn’t really wrong at all. There’s not a lot of logic to it, but it works.

 

    “I want you so badly, pet, what a lovely thing you are…” Crowley hisses, pushing his coat off his shoulders, halfway down his arms, keeping him gently restrained by the bunching silks. “What a soft little thing you are-- oh, I’ve found something that’s not so soft!”

 

    His hand has returned, sliding up from his thigh to cup over his crotch, and Aziraphale rocks into his hand with a whimper.

 

    “You want my touch.” He grins.

 

    Aziraphale moans something around his fingers, which might be ‘no’, and which might not be. He isn’t sure himself, only that he can’t stop the sound once it’s begun, only that it’s long and low and needy. He loses that hand, and the other one, but only so his waistcoat can follow his coat. Crowley draws the jeweled dagger from the sheath at his hip, grasping the front of Aziraphale’s shirt.

 

    “I’m afraid I’m going to make you unfit for that ball of yours.” He grins, drawing the fabric away from the skin, slicing through it.

 

    “Oh! You beast!” He gasps. Crowley throws his dagger aside and bares Aziraphale’s chest to him, kissing and nipping at him.

 

    “Mm, that’s right…” He grins. It’s cheating to let his tongue fork, when they’re supposed to be people, he supposes… but the way Aziraphale _reacts_ when he plays it over a nipple like that, when he catches the hardening nub in the notch of it, when he wriggles it just so to tease with the tiny twin points… It may be cheating, but Aziraphale isn’t complaining. “I’m a _beast_. And that makes you my prey, doesn’t it, pet?”

 

    Aziraphale shudders, delight coursing through him. Prey, he does like that… something small and soft in the jaws of a dangerous beast. Helpless and waiting to be devoured, metaphorically speaking…

 

    “You can’t mean to have me-- here-- like this?” He asks, his breaths heaving. Crowley’s hands grip and squeeze at him, his mouth continues to delight, sharp teeth and clever tongue.

 

    “It would be terribly rude of me…” Crowley lets one hand slip from the soft fat of Aziraphale’s side, back down between his legs. “Were I to put you into such a state and leave you. Don’t you think?”

 

    “I-- that-- I can’t _help_ it!”

 

    “Oh, I know you can’t, pet. I know you can’t. You’re so… so… helpless before me. And I like that. Seeing you tremble, a precious little flower to be plucked. Seeing you shiver when I draw near… What’s the matter, pretty? Afraid of the bad man? Afraid he won’t be good to you?”

 

    “N-no-- not _afraid_ …”

 

    “Really?” He grins, eyes alight. “Not afraid of my dagger? Not afraid of my _whip_? Not afraid of my kiss, pretty?”

 

    Aziraphale bites his lip, hesitant. He shakes his head, but only barely, and hopes that isn’t the wrong answer. They hadn’t scripted their scene so fully… but Crowley had seemed pleased with the idea of his not being so afraid. And he wants him so badly, suppose he said he was frightened and Crowley thought he meant they ought to take longer, ought to try to ease his pretend fears? He’s not sure he could stand it. Every touch pushes the need in him higher.

 

    “Well, good. You shouldn’t be afraid of that.” Crowley says, his voice low. “You’re going to like what I do to you. I’ll send you home safe.”

 

    It’s _definitely_ cheating when Crowley miracles Aziraphale’s breeches into nothingness, but Aziraphale isn’t complaining about that, either, when his cock feels much freer, and much closer to the promise of Crowley’s mouth. He’d said he would use his _mouth_ , his beautiful clever mouth!

 

    He tears at his drawers, as well, and grins at the way Aziraphale can’t keep quiet, can’t help a yelp of shock and delight as the fabric is left in tatters about his thighs. Crowley’s fingers play over the blue ribbons that garter his hose-- needlessly, but he appreciates the detail, if the way he toys with the bows is any indication.

 

    “I’ll leave you your jewels, but you’ll grant me a token, my sweet thing…” He unties one, bringing it to his lips, his eyes burning into Aziraphale’s as he kisses the ribbon before tucking it into a pocket. “Just something to remember you by, and your beautiful legs.”

 

    Aziraphale winds up with one of said legs up over Crowley’s shoulder, feeling the velvet against his thigh, so soft against his bare skin. Crowley kisses his belly, his thighs, and the world narrows down to his beautiful tongue.

 

    He can’t help himself, as it lengthens as well as forking-- he can make the effort to push his own pleasure for later and focus solely on Aziraphale, or he can make the effort to keep a human tongue in his mouth. And anyway, a human tongue could never do what Crowley’s can.

 

    “Oh-- oh, you-- oh, my _dear_!” Aziraphale braces himself against the seat. He’s not sure where he would go if he didn’t, and yet it feels somehow necessary, when Crowley’s tongue flicks at him like that and then wraps around the length of him. A single slick muscle, undulating around him, hot and wet… The more it seems to draw him on, draw him in, the further it slides down and around him, the less he could hope to control himself. Crowley’s lips close around the head of his cock, the forked end of his tongue tickles at his balls, they twitch and draw up, and everything…

 

    Everything is so _much_ like this, the coach rocking as they move together, as Crowley bobs his head and carefully adjusts for the thrusting Aziraphale can’t help doing.

 

    He doesn’t last very long, he’s not sure what the average is for the act, or if it being his first such matters very much… He lasts long enough for the rhythm between them to get good, and then he comes apart. He watches, rapt, as Crowley licks his softening prick clean, as Crowley licks his own face clean. There’s a little bit on the mask, but he draws back when Aziraphale extends a shaky hand.

 

    “Give me your hand?” Crowley asks, standing-- as much as he can in the confines of the coach, bent over with one hand braced just by Aziraphale’s head.

 

    Aziraphale obeys. Lets his arm be stretched up so that Crowley might kiss his gloved palm, and he leaves his hand there while Crowley gets his own breeches open, gets everything shoved out of the way.

 

    This time, when Crowley guides his hand down, he has a better idea of how to touch him, though he still plays the naif, still pretends Crowley must make him, must guide him. Still, it’s smoother, and Aziraphale finds he enjoys it more now that it’s familiar. He can better pay attention to the signs of Crowley’s pleasure. He feels less conflicted over enjoying it, the feel of Crowley in his hand-- through the silk of his gloves this time, and he wonders at the pleasure that might add.

 

    When Crowley comes, his release hits Aziraphale’s chest, pearly white over the bites and bruises he’d let form. Crowley sinks back down to his knees, gazing up at him.

 

    “Beautiful… I should thank you for the precious gift, pet-- you’ve given me something finer than any stolen treasure I’ve ever taken.” He whispers.

 

    “Wait-- before you leave me…” Aziraphale pulls off the ring, the real one, the shape of a delicate silver feather wrapped around his finger, the one thing at odds with all the gold. It had fit his pinky, over the thin silk of his glove-- it should fit Crowley’s ungloved hand well. He presses it into his palm. “That you not leave empty-handed, when I have caused you to miss any other coaches traveling to the ball.”

 

    “What a sweet thing you are.” Crowley’s smile is slow-spreading, awed. _Real_ , he can feel the difference, between a thing that Aziraphale created from nothing and a thing that was crafted. He knows the weight Aziraphale gives to made things, real things. He’d bought this, and in Crowley’s metal, not his own. It was always meant to be a gift… “What a dear little pet.”

 

    He leans back, bending his head to kiss Aziraphale’s knee. With a wave of the hand, the mess is dealt with, and Aziraphale clothed. Crowley helps him down from the coach, the two of them invisible once more-- even if the swinging coach door will be caught on camera.

 

    He walks him out to the Bentley with an arm around him, with constant attentions, nuzzling and kissing at him as they go. He vanishes his own gloves and unreal rings, that he might put on the one from Aziraphale once he has him bundled into his seat in the car.

 

    “It’s lovely.” He says, leaning in through the passenger’s side door, to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek. “I’ll think of you every time I wear it. I’ll wear it all the time.”

 

    They don’t so much wear wedding rings-- they’ve known each other long before any man or man-shaped creature would think to wear a wedding ring-- as they do keep some small token constantly with them, but they’ve exchanged so many tokens. By unspoken agreement, they count those which they might have exchanged before they were properly a couple. The ring Aziraphale normally does favor is one Crowley had presented him with in a very off-hand manner back when the world was young, when you carried your wealth or you wore it, but Crowley often wears a tie pin or carries a key fob or handkerchief.

 

    They don’t wear one constant wedding ring each, but it will be nice, Aziraphale thinks, to see this one now and then. To see how it gleams prettily on Crowley’s hand, the delicately-engraved detail, the meaningful shape of it.

 

    “I’m glad you like it.” He sighs, and Crowley kisses him again.

 

    “I love it. I’ll think of you every time I _see_ it.

 

    Aziraphale smiles, and thinks of the little glass-topped dresser, the velvet-lined top drawer where all of Crowley’s favorite tokens are on display to choose between. The jewelry and the little bits and bobs, the two handkerchiefs, one bought new for him and embroidered with the snake and the apple blossoms in one corner, the other an aged, lace-edged robin’s egg silk that had traveled at Aziraphale’s breast some decades before being given over to his keeping… Rings, bracelets, tie pins, cufflinks, the key fob, the bill clip. A pair of earrings-- Crowley sometimes wears only one, with one of his more modern, hip looks, but he’d worn both… Aziraphale had given them to him once, when he was going in a very feminine guise, and he’d been so pleased at the way they’d completed the illusion he’d wanted. He’d called the gift _thoughtful_.

 

    They hadn’t been lovers, then. But as with every other little gift, the sight of Crowley wearing them had warmed him. And when he’d gone happily back to something more masculine, he’d worn just one… Aziraphale remembers the way he’d felt, with the knowledge that Crowley wouldn’t merely stick this gift in the drawer until such time as he might need to go feminine again, that he liked them and wanted to use them, or use one.

 

    He toys with his own ring, and closes his eyes for the drive, and smiles. They’ve always given each other things, and those things have always been more special than other things, than things they might have bought for themselves… Perhaps it should have been a sign to him, with that very first ring. How even when Crowley had brushed it off as unimportant, said he’d picked it up and hadn’t liked the fit, hadn’t liked the gold against his skin tone, that it might as well be appreciated and it seemed more Aziraphale… He’d tried to make it seem anything but sentimental, and yet Aziraphale has treasured it so long and so well that he’s cheated and used a miracle to repair it on more than one occasion, when constant use had threatened to rub it down too far.

 

    “Crowley?” He sighs.

 

    “Yes, angel?”

 

    “I love you.”

 

    “I love you, too. What do you say to a cup of cocoa in bed? No reason tonight has to end… you’ve been so good to me and we’ve had so much fun, let’s not say it’s over.”

 

    It’s a rare occasion where Aziraphale feels he could easily sleep, but he doesn’t _need_ to. The idea of curling up in bed with a cup of cocoa and Crowley is very attractive indeed…

 

    “Let’s never say it’s over.” He agrees, his hand stealing over to rest gently on Crowley’s thigh.

 

    “Sounds like a plan to me.” Crowley grins.

 

\---/-/---

 

    Aziraphale heads to the bedroom, psyching himself up for their weekly preen. He wants to get through it, wants it to just be okay, to just be _normal_. It’s not that having a sex drive is the worst thing in the world, no-- he’s enjoyed it, doing those things with Crowley, pretending to be people and just exploring what it might all mean and how it could feel. He’s liked it very much! Still, it would be nice to be able to enjoy the kind of deep massaging preen he always used to, without an inconvenient erection. He isn’t always emotionally equipped for it, after all, he’s only done it twice!

 

    Crowley isn’t there, though he’d thought he would be. He must be with his plants, and that’s why he hadn’t heard him in the rest of the house, but he won’t be long. Even when he’s been working, he’s never been truly late for this.

 

    Crowley isn’t there, but Aziraphale’s nightgown is laid out on the bed. Odd, he’s never worn it on their preening night… He likes it for warm weather, with the air flow it allows for and the thinness of the material, how worn soft it is with how long he’s owned it. But he wouldn’t wear it on a preening night, because it would cover his back, he’d have to take it off completely-- true, he could go to the effort of letting his wings come through his clothing, as he would if he needed them when he was out in public, it’s as uncomplicated as a miracle gets, but Crowley wouldn’t be able to get all of his scapulars. Preening nights, he wears either his warm tartan pyjamas, or his somewhat lighter-weight striped ones, so that he can remove the top. But on occasion he supposes he’s worn underwear, or less-- if they shower together first, he’s worn less. And Crowley wouldn’t have laid it out without reason.

 

    Crowley _likes_ the nightgown. Aziraphale had thought, the first time he’d worn it, that he’d be getting a gentle teasing over it, that Crowley would point out how old it was, how old-fashioned, ask why he’d held onto it so long when he has two serviceable pairs of modern pyjamas. Instead, he’d…

 

    Ah, yes. He’d gone gaga over being able to see Aziraphale’s calves. Well, he had promised to flash those around a bit at home. He could always be preened in his underwear.

 

    He’s just changed into it and moved to wait on the bed, when he hears a sound at the window. There’s not a shadow beyond the frosted glass when he first looks, but by the time he reaches it to open, Crowley is there, crouched on the sill and clinging rather precariously.

 

    And in his full costume, from their night at the museum.

 

    “What are you doing?” Aziraphale tugs him in, slamming the window shut.

 

    “I couldn’t stay away from you.” Crowley shrugs.

 

    He doesn’t need to say it-- Aziraphale catches on quickly. If they were to do this _first_ , the preening might not… he might be sated enough not to be bothered.

 

    “You shouldn’t have come here.” He says breathlessly, clinging to Crowley’s arm, leaning in towards him. “If anyone caught you…”

 

    “It’s your beauty that’s bewitched me, pretty pet. I might have withered and died, could I not fly to your side again.” He takes Aziraphale’s hand, kissing it warmly, backing him towards the bed. “Pity this poor fool, for a taste of your lips has damned me. Were I away from you, I should surely perish for lack of your love. Not a moment’s gone by I haven’t thought of your sweet mouth, your white throat, your tender breast… not a moment’s gone by I haven’t thought of the curve of your calf, the pillow of your thigh. That lovely thing between them.”

 

    “Between my calf and my thigh?” Aziraphale blinks. Well, he had kissed his knee, but it hadn’t seemed a particular point of interest…

 

    “Between your two thighs.”

 

    “Oh. _That_ lovely thing. Lovely?”

 

    “So lovely I have dreamed each night of being allowed to see it once more. To touch, to kiss, to taste…”

 

    “Oh!” Aziraphale squeals, and thinks he might be allowed a squeal without affecting his dignity overmuch, when Crowley has just scooped him up into his arms. “Oh! You wicked devil!”

 

    “Hush, love, hush, or someone shall hear.” He carries him the last two steps to the bed, laying him down. “And they shall see you like this beneath me.”

 

    “They should drag you out of here and have you put to death for your crimes if they did see you here on top of me.” He says, and wraps his arms very firmly around Crowley. “Oh, no, you mustn’t be discovered! I don’t want you to be, really I don’t.”

 

    “You wouldn’t see me punished?” Crowley runs a hand through his hair. “Even when I stopped your coach like I did? Perhaps you have been thinking of me since that night, too.”

 

    There is something in the light in his eyes, the curve of his smile, and Aziraphale realizes he doesn’t mean the game. He means the eighteenth century.

 

    He means the night Aziraphale has very much fantasized about, when he was stopped by the gang Crowley was running with. Crowley hadn’t boarded them, but in all the commotion, their eyes had met, and then there had been the sounds of clattering hoofbeats, of men’s shouts, of a single gunshot, and the highwaymen had scattered, only for no other riders to appear to threaten them. Crowley had lingered half a moment more, and tipped his hat to Aziraphale, and disappeared… and then everyone had returned to the coach unmolested, and gone on their way, and it hadn’t been Aziraphale who’d saved them…

 

    “Perhaps I have been.” He admits. He’d thought perhaps Crowley might have forgotten… it was some time before his near-century nap, and he woke up with some things fuzzy in his memory. But that night hadn’t been forgotten…

 

    “How mean of me to leave you with only your fantasies for so long, then.” Crowley murmurs, their lips so close.

 

    “Don’t put your boots on the bedspread.” Aziraphale says.

 

    Crowley draws back. “That does ruin the moment a bit.”

 

    “Sorry. But please don’t put your boots on the bedspread, when they’ll be all muddy from the garden.”

 

    He huffs and vanishes them, tossing off his hat and stripping out his coat and breeches and waistcoat as long as he’s at it, before climbing on the bed to straddle Aziraphale.

 

    “No boots. Is this acceptable?”

 

    “Oh, very.”

 

    “May I go back to what I was saying?”

 

    “Please.”

 

    Crowley clears his throat, leaning down until they’re once more very close to kissing. “As I was saying… how mean of me to leave you with only your fantasies for so long. I ought to have come to your window immediately. I ought to have lain you down and made love to you right away. Have you pined for me terribly, pretty pet?”

 

    “Oh, yes…” Aziraphale sighs. He reaches up, delicately undoing the ribbon holding Crowley’s mask in place. This time, Crowley lets it come away in his hands, and he sets it to the side, cupping Crowley’s cheek. “You’re so handsome.”

 

    “And you are not afraid of me?”

 

    “No.”

 

    “Because I let you go before?”

 

    “Yes.” He whispers, and thinks of the way Crowley had looked at him-- how even with his eyes shielded, Aziraphale had known they were burning into his own when he’d tipped his hat before vanishing. “I think… perhaps, you’re not so terribly bad as all that.”

 

    “Oh?”

 

    It’s too much. It comes over him suddenly, it’s too much, but before he can safeword, Crowley’s whole demeanor changes, the kisses that shower Aziraphale’s cheeks are gentle and comforting and sexless.

 

    “Shh, there… there, there. You’re all right, it’s just me, angel, we won’t do anything you don’t like.” He promises.

 

    “I know, I know.”

 

    “I was going to give you a token, because I owed you one. Can I give it to you now?”

 

    Aziraphale nods, and Crowley rolls off of him, going to find his coat and digging through the pockets. He brings back a ring-- one from his own collection of things he’d owned for years. He’d had it since before that nap, Aziraphale thinks, or else he’d bought it for himself on waking, before they’d caught up. He remembers it, Crowley’s worn it more often than any other, alongside whatever token from Aziraphale he’d chosen. A silver snake, he slides it onto Aziraphale’s little finger, to coil there.

 

    “This one’s your favorite.”

 

    “You’re my favorite. So you should wear it.” He nuzzles at Aziraphale’s cheek. “It’ll be like you’ve got me with you.”

 

    “I suppose there’s something of a resemblance.” He smiles. “Crowley… I think-- I think tonight, I’d like to-- I’d like to, erm… un-make the effort. And just preen the way we used to. I think-- It’s too much for me otherwise.”

 

    “Of course. You don’t have to justify it to me, you can-- any time you need to. It’s your body, love.”

 

    “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

 

    “Couldn’t ever be.” Crowley promises. “I shouldn’t have surprised you, we didn’t have time to plan it out-- next time we’ll talk about it all first.”

 

    “I appreciate the thought, dear. Really I do. But… perhaps you’re right, until… until I’m more used to it, talking beforehand helps. I liked it, though! It’s just… I feel so many things, and…”

 

    “No surprises until we’re ready for that.” He nods, and kisses Aziraphale softly. “Shall we have a bath first? Calm down a bit before we get to it?”

 

    “I’d like that.” Aziraphale cuddles in closer, pressing their foreheads together. Crowley’s brow is so blessedly cool against his own, he feels even more of his agitation seep out of him and disappear. “Thank you, my dear, you do know just how to take care of me.”


End file.
